Page 88 of Hendrix

“Word on the street is that Lis was obsessed with his bride. Never looked at another woman once he met her, which we both know is rare in the mob. Apparently, the brother suffered for about a year before he was put out of his misery. The torture he went through killed him over and over again, but Lis had a doctor on hand to keep bringing him back to life just so he could let him heal enough to start again. It’s Philly folklore.”

“I like his style,” I said begrudgingly. “Still, the thought of Lis finding out we were the ones who murdered his family doesn’t fill me with the warm and fuzzies—” I paused “—except, did you get the impression he doesn’t care they’re dead?”

“For sure,” Colt concurred. “But if Leon, Antoni, and Filip were double-crossing Adrian like he said, or at least doing shit he wasn’t down with, maybe we did him a favor. If Lis is telling the truth about not knowing the cousins were involved with drugs, we may have solved his problem for him.”

“Seems that way,” I mused. “I don’t think he’s an immediate threat. He seemed okay with Anna living her life. But he may be a problem in the future when it comes to Anna’s boy.”

“So, we monitor their calls and keep tabs on his movements. The instant he makes a move, we deploy.”

I inclined my head. “Agreed.”

He jerked his thumb toward the door. “You wanna call Church? Brief the officers?”

Pulling my cell out of my pocket, I scrolled through my recent call list. “Yeah. Just gonna call Anna first to make sure she’s good. Ten minutes?”

“You got it.” He grinned. “Your woman did good today. She’s gonna make a fine First Lady. The boys love her, she’s kind, she’s sweet, and she’s got—” he clicked his fingers, searching for the word “—gumption.” He turned for the door as I sat there with my phone in my hand and my chest full of warmth.

“Colt,” I called out as he reached the exit.

His steps faltered, and he craned his neck.

“Thanks.” I grinned.

His grin widened. “You any closer to getting in there yet?”

I shook my head. “Nope. Gotta build the trust again. I hurt her; she hasn’t forgotten, and I haven’t done enough to make her see I’ve changed.”

“Don’t give up,” he said gently. “Today must have gone a long way in showing her you’ve changed. You’d have never let her do this a couple of years ago. Just keep proving you’ve grown as a person. Trust me, it’s worth every sliver of self-doubt, every feelin’ of unworthiness, and every stab of guilt.”

“Whenever I waver, I just think back to when she was mine, brother,” I admitted. “There was nothin’ more beautiful than the light she shone on me. It’s why I couldn’t let her go. Once you’ve had that warming you up, nothin’ else comes close.”

He nodded slowly. “You’ll get there, Hendrix, just keep on keeping on. You survived oceans, deserts, and jungles. You can survive one tiny redhead.”

I chuckled, marveling at how much quicker I was to laugh these days. “Brother. Believe me, my ol’ lady has a temper to match that red hair, and I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ANNA

The first night I got with Hendrix, he sat in a honkytonk bar with a guitar and a microphone and sang the words to a James Bay song while staring into my eyes.

That was the moment he made me fall a little bit in love with him.

Now, he sat in the vast ballroom, again with a guitar in his hands and a microphone at his mouth, staring into my eyes, singing “Better Together” by Jack Johnson, and I felt my heart soften.

It seemed I had a thing for hot-guy commandos with muscles, tattoos, a sexy man bun, and blue eyes that stared deep into my soul while he belted out how life was better when we were together.

I’d always loved Hendrix’s playing. He sent my senses into overdrive when he locked eyes with me while he sang—like the words meant something to him, and he needed them to mean something to me, too. There was beauty in the way he wanted to share that part of him. Hendrix loved music; it was his inspiration, and it settled him. The way he extended his love of music to me had always meant the world because it was so damned personal to him.

Whatever song he played first thing in the morning set his mood for the entire day, and he didn’t turn his nose up at any genre or band. He found worth in every note and every lyric, and I loved that about him because it revealed a sensitive side that he didn’t show anybody but me.

It would’ve been easy to get lost in the fantasy that we belonged to each other, but something held me back.

Hendrix had changed in the years we’d been apart, and definitely for the better.

He was softer, he listened, and he learned. The men all looked up to him in a way that made me proud to be the one on his arm when we went down to the bar at night. He even told me he loved me—or at least implied it—and didn’t hide it from his men either. It was such a contrast to how he used to hide me away from the people in his life that it sent a jolt through me every time he publicly said the words.

He was working hard to win me over, not by grand gestures or clichéd actions, but by showing me he’d learned from his mistakes. But a part of me couldn’t let go of my insecurities when it came to Hendrix, especially since he was the one who put them there in the first place.

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